


the entertainment

by tilthesundies



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Personal Assistant Louis Tomlinson, Rock Star Harry Styles, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:02:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29741238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilthesundies/pseuds/tilthesundies
Summary: For Harry's upcoming album release, his team dreams of hiring him a PA to help assist with the burden that comes with a launch. Louis Tomlinson is a highly sought-after PA who's worked with many A-listers.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 20
Kudos: 77





	the entertainment

**Author's Note:**

> this has been horribly, tremendously, suffocatingly unbearably the heaviest thing i've ever written. i've been fed up with it since 2016, wrote it on and off for 2 years before taking a hiatus from it. now i'm back and posting it. i never thought it'd never live to see the day tbh
> 
> it will be split into 4 or 5 chapters. the first one is short because i wanted it to act as an introduction; the rest will be looonnnggg.

Harry Styles’s unreadable gaze is intently trained on him. 

It's unblinking, open-eyed, fierce — dull and darker than deceptive candids. He sits across the black, long and rectangular table, red and black wool coat draped loosely over him, white satin dress shirt tucked into fitted black trousers. Louis recognises that coat from the Jean Paul Gaultier Vintage collection. He’s slimmer with broad shoulders, skin fair; jaw sharp and defined, cheekbones soft; lips carved into a cupid’s bow, pigmentation a healthy and alluring pink. But his clean, healthy, and volumised hair is the main attraction, framing the features of his face in soft curls. It is inches past his shoulder, and it’s no longer its natural brown shade. 

It’s blond.

For his entire career, the colour had never changed. But earlier in the month, fuzzy pictures taken in secret of him surfaced and suddenly aflame was the press and Internet because they caught wind in a matter of minutes and news spread like wildfire. Then, a week later, a group of paparazzi had cornered him outside of a fancy restaurant he came out of with a friend, and in those pictures his gaze is kept to the ground and he’s trying to cover his face and struggling through the crowd that had gathered.

But that part didn’t matter.

Truthfully, Louis wasn’t a fan of it, at first, but after being repeatedly exposed to it, his feelings have changed and softened. It began to really suit Harry; it began to settle into his complexion; and he must admit, it looks far better in person than photographs could dare hold the capacity to capture.

“Louis,” he is greeted by a friendly, gruff voice.

He turns his head from Harry’s hard gaze, to the right, and his eyes fall on John Howard. He’s a short man with greying hair dusting his temples and deep bags underneath his eyes, accompanying crow’s feet. His blue eyes are kind. “John,” he returns the greeting, giving him a warm smile, “nice to see you again.”

John gives him a similar smile. 

“It is of mutual feeling. Would it be wrong of myself to presume you have the paperwork signed and with you?”

“Of course not.”

Louis leans forward and takes the thick manila envelope in his lap and slides it across the table to John. Leaning back against the chair, he comfortably crosses a leg and entwines his fingers in his lap; however, he can’t help his gaze flickering over to Harry for a brief second.

He is still staring at Louis.

John chuckles, and a smile is spread across his face as he says, “Thank you. Before we go further, Mr. Tomlinson, I want to introduce you to Harry; Harry”—John lifts his hand and gestures to Louis, but Harry barely pays him any attention—“this is Louis Tomlinson. I presume Liam has filled you in.” Harry nods. John then begins to take the paperwork out of the envelope Louis gave him. “Perfect. We’re all caught up. We can now go over the specifics since Harry is with us.”

Louis only nods.

There are other people that occupy seats in this meeting. A woman with auburn hair longer than Harry’s sits to Harry’s left. She looks to be in her early 30s, and has green eyes and a medium frame, and she’s beautiful. A man who must be around Harry’s age, if not older, sits to Harry’s right. Brown eyes, short, brown hair and attractive matching stubble. From Louis’s prior meeting with John, he is quick to put together the man is his manager and the woman his publicist. John has his own people with him that had attended the last meeting. 

There are discussions, but no disagreements. All negotiations were made in their prior conference. 

For the most part, Louis can read and understand a contract with practised ease, but when he scheduled a time to give a proper, undivided read, he called a lawyer he knows and had given a copy to catch loopholes or clauses Harry’s label may have snuck in that could have passed him by. There were none; and he signed without thought. Hardly a word falls from Harry’s mouth still. Aside from a few comments and assurances, Louis stays pretty quiet himself. But he wonders often what musings are working Harry’s mind — with a stare as relentless as his, there could only be so much.

Then, Louis is being given an option.

An out. 

If he has changed his mind between the time he’s stepped through the door and this moment, John promises to conveniently overlook every bit of this and let him walk away untroubled. But Louis needs this job. As discouraging as Harry’s unsettling gaze and silence may be, he does not agree to walking away — in fact, he would be foolish to: to work for a star whose status is as high as Harry’s is an opportunity hardly many receive.

“I have not,” Louis voices his final answer.

A smile so big and genuine splits John’s face. “Fantastic, fantastic! It is official, then, Louis. I will have Liam Payne”—his eyes drift to the man sitting to Harry’s right—“explain to you the rest of the smaller things, after. We’re all done here, but I will request another appointment with you within the next week because there is more information I am obligated to give you regarding your hiring. Welcome to the team.”

Louis’s chuckle is forced, but his smile is bright. “Thank you so much,” he says in reply as everyone gathers their things.

He stands when the majority do, and shakes his hands with everyone, throwing around goodbyes and further gratitudes as the older men and women file out in orderly fashion. In an unintentional glance, he finds Harry the only person who is still seated. He hasn’t moved, and his face has not changed much. 

Once the room has settled with silence, Harry speaks for the first time.

“Please, sit.”

The words are for Louis. 

He looks over at Harry who has his eyes, for once, not on him.

He’s staring ahead of himself with a leg crossed over the other, his hands laying on top of each other in his lap. A glance at Liam taking his seat next to Harry decides Louis’s action for him, and he sits back down in his chair. Perhaps it should be unnerving having the world’s arguably biggest star look at him like this, an air about him oozing such demoralising equilibrium. Maybe to others it is. But Louis has been around celebrities for far longer than he’d have time to explain; any starstruck or awestruck emotion he could feel dissipated quite early in the game. Those feelings are an illusion; they are a deceptive allure into grouping these specific talented people together into one label and restricting these average, sometimes good, sometimes bad, people to a high standard even they themselves have trouble obtaining on an hourly basis.

Harry lifts his gaze to meet Louis’s. 

It snaps inside himself; the word he’s been looking for is _detached_. The look on Harry’s face, and his aura: detached; impartially cold.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go over some things with you,” speaks he, with a mildly throaty voice that is as true as in recordings. Louis doesn’t know where to look; he doesn’t know if his eyes should keep on Harry’s luxurious coat, or the multitude of rings on his fingers, or Harry’s eyes. But Harry chooses for him, locking him in an intense eyematch. “I do not know what you have heard, or what you haven’t heard, and, quite frankly, I don’t care. I have simple rules, and I expect you to follow them accordingly. I have no tolerance for errors; everything needs to be scheduled in time with my needs, such as interviews, photoshoots, events, performances, et cetera — I need a daily, weekly, and monthly conference with you concerning my schedule. Failure to do so results in a talk with my publicist, for which she’ll go over the contract you signed.” Lifting his hand, he briefly holds it in front of the woman next to him. “Rachel.”

Then in this pause he takes, a dim thoughtfulness reflects in his eyes. But it’s as gone as fast as it comes. 

Louis gives him a look, hoping it conveys indifference. 

“I see.”

“Truth be told, Louis,” continues Harry, “I don’t like this any more than you do right now. I did not condone to hiring you, but I was outnumbered, unfortunately. Liam will acquire your phone number and e-mail address for me since I must be on my way to somewhere more important. If you miss my calls or texts, please do return them immediately. I never call for no reason; therefore, I expect you to answer.”

Louis’s nod is mute. “Duly noted.”

A smile so wide splits across Harry’s face as he stands from his seat. 

Narrow dimples are carved in his cheeks, softening his face into something so warm, but its reflection in his eyes is falsified. He walks past Liam — brushing his hand along his shoulders in acknowledgement — to the door. He doesn't bother to glance over his shoulder when he opens the door, and calls in a soft, silvery voice, “Lovely to meet you, Louis.”

The door closes soundly behind him.

Harry Styles is either of these three things: a) an egotistical prick hiding underneath a modest, charming façade he puts on display for the general public, to fool the naïve and starstruck and the people who have intense adoration for him to climb high for star status; b) an impersonal businessman who is far too experienced and knowledgeable about the ins-and-outs of the industry, possibly had a back stabbed once or twice; c) hiding some form of psychological trauma.

Louis looks at Liam. 

A smile frames his face instantaneously when they make eye contact. “As I am sure you know by now, I am Liam Payne, Harry Styles’s manager,” Liam informs him, voice modulated and low. Louis gives him a smile, allowing it to soften whatever expression had been on his face prior. Sometimes his face makes distasteful expressions without his knowledge. A slim briefcase is laid on the table, and Liam sets aside papers from it. “The scheduling for Harry is developed slowly through the next month, but it picks up after.”

He slides the papers towards Louis. 

Louis takes them into his hands and reads it. There’s one promotional stunt a week the next four weeks, then it picks up. It becomes two, then three, then the number of promotional stints and live appearances changes from highs to lows. It’s a busy couple months ahead. He looks up at Liam. “What should I expect?” he asks. “From . . . this, to Harry?”

Liam appears to take his question into consideration. “You know, that, I can’t give you a definite answer for,” he answers. “Be prepared for anything. Harry is someone who expects people who work for him to keep at his pace; to be as quick thinking as he.”

Louis inhales a quiet breath. “How long have you known Harry for?”

“He and I have a very long history,” confesses Liam. “I first met him in our early years of secondary. I forget sometimes he’s younger than he is because of how _vast_ he is. He hired me when he was nineteen; he sat me down and told me I was the only one he could trust to manage him. I was inexperienced, and far too young, but he had faith in me.”

“He must still have that faith if you’re here.”

“Yes,” Liam says with a modest, kind smile. “He’s good to me. He’s very hardworking, has always earned what he receives in return — which leads me to tell you that he will work you the same way he works himself.” 

He says it in a lighthearted voice, accompanying it with a laugh, creases underneath his eyes the shape of crescents. 

Louis chuckles with him in ease, and he nods. 

“Hard work got me into this seat, so, that would never be an issue,” he assures, a small smile uplifting his face. 

He has seen almost everything — from an employer cheating on their spouse and forcing him into secrecy, to cleaning up multiple strangers’ vomit after a house party gone wrong, to many other unfortunate and unfair mishaps and situations he’s had to conquer. Being a celebrity personal assistant isn’t solely retrieving coffee, buying clothing, sorting through fan mail, and doing menial tasks average people do for themselves that one does for their celebrity: it’s constant traveling, seeing through the stubbornness with patience, achieving absurd demands without objection, never feeling rested or possibly appreciated enough. 

It’s being willingly taken for granted.

But that is mostly if one gets the bad end of the stick. It happens more often than not; a majority of household names — whether they’re in the press every day, stay hidden, or are too small to be considered such yet — are consistently more fun to assist theoretically. In practise, they’re exhaustive and draining human beings. There are good ones. He’s had a stroke of luck throughout his whole career in often assisting those kind than those intolerable, but he’s still had his fair share. As far as he is concerned, he and Harry are equals in their humanity. Perhaps he is unintentionally pessimistic this time in his feelings, but he holds hope for greater things. 

Liam’s words give him something, but it’s actions that are always honest.

From the side of the stage, Louis can’t stop gazing.

Sensual red glitter liner is painted along thickly under Harry's waterline in a one smooth, flawless line. When it reaches the outer corner of his eyes, it turns upwards into a small wing. Louis can’t say it looks weird, but it certainly makes the colour of his eyes stand out. Typically, rehearsals are done in casual clothing with hardly a dusting of makeup covering an artist’s bare skin. They don’t require the special makeup they will be wearing for the performance, and they don’t wear the outfit pre-event. _None_ of it is a necessity, unless it’s specifically required.

But Harry Styles is the opposite. 

He’s wearing half of his outfit; he’s only put on the shirt. It’s so sheer he may as well be wearing nothing for a top. It’s a beige colour that flatters his skin tone, and it’s barely buttoned. It complements his light golden blond hair that flows freely as he moves just as so across the stage. Although he is not singing every word and rather humming, listening to the beat, he goes over each step repetitively. Then he’s shaking his head, suddenly, and, with a face so full of dissatisfaction, he raises his hand in the air, instructing something with just his fingers, and the music cuts off.

It starts, again, at the top.

There’s smoke lingering in the air. 

Louis watches Harry hide himself behind it, centre stage where he stands in Louis’s line of vision. As soon as the haunting beat begins again, the smokers go off. This time, they cloak the entire stage with a heavy presence like Harry had instructed seconds prior, and red lights relight the edges of the stage.

The stage lights above and hidden in the back are black, white, and red. Life-size joker cards are placed strategically around the stage with jesters of every variety. Harry steps out of the smoke the moment he opens his mouth. He sings with conviction and a voice so encompassed in emotion his hands obtain a mind of their own in their movements, fingers curled in strained elegance. Louis watches the roses he sets on fire with a single flick of his wrist, the graceful, smooth transition of him sliding back behind the fog to only be thrown out of it, wearing a jester costume whilst the dancers overtake the spotlight during a long instrumental.

The costume hugs every muscle of Harry’s body. Its checkered pattern is red and gold, but his mock scepter is black and white. 

Louis doesn’t expect anything from it, so, it takes him off guard when the mock scepter abruptly spews blood, the head promptly bursting into real, vicious flames following it. Harry is unbothered by it; it is as if he has handled a thousand merciless, burning fires in the palms of his hands before. 

Louis, however, is a little horrified. 

A round, red and white bullseye hangs from one of the several life-size joker playing cards several feet behind Harry to his right. Pinned to the bullseye is a large picture of Harry from months prior. In overwhelming passion, Harry fluidly spins and throws the burning scepter at it with strength and firm fervor. The picture is swallowed by the flames when the head of the scepter sticks to it in perfect precision. The music fades to nothing, and Harry stands in stiff silence, back turned to where the audience would be. His attention is captured by the burning picture of him that a few members of the crew are now putting out. There’s a frown on his face, his eyebrows pulled down together, and he seems to not hear the mindless applause from some of the crew.

Harry called him at precisely six in the morning to inform him they were to meet at The Forum during which time his rehearsal is scheduled. He continued with the confidence that he and Louis would go to his home afterwards, so, he could show Louis around; to acquaint him with the surroundings and inner workings of his home. He was, also, promised a key. But Louis is a little wary, he admits. Rumours bombard every bit of Harry’s life, and these rumours do not exclude his home. 

Louis believes that if anybody _knew_ where he lived, there wouldn’t be as many conspiracies. 

To think, millions upon millions of fans he has, and to wherever he steps out into the public eye there are always paparazzi there to hound him, reporters whom write articles on every _precious_ breath he takes, that possibly someone would have found his address. Maybe there has been an incident, but Harry paid them off. 

But, alas, no one knows.

Louis suspects it can’t be too far; it must be based somewhere in California. 

As he eyes the crew folding joker cards with care, cleaning the quite realistically looking blood on the stage floor, he feels a presence coming his way. Louis is but the least fazed when Harry appears in his peripheral view with a clean face, black jeans and a black silk dress shirt half-buttoned, fitted across his broad shoulders, and tucked into his jeans. The sleeves are rolled carefully to almost his elbows; and it is only buttoned before the middle of his chest.

Despite staring at Louis’s profile — in a probable attempt to will Louis’s attention towards him — he is quiet with him for the long moment. Louis notes the vague, tired look swimming lazily in his green eyes.

When Harry speaks, it is quiet and firm. His vocal chords sound rough. “Are you ready to leave?”

Briefly meeting Harry’s gaze, Louis gives him a polite smile. “Whenever you are.” He gives a slight pause, squinting at Harry the tiniest bit. “It is okay if I call you Harry, right? Or do you prefer Mr. Styles?” In his years, he’s learned there tends to be the few that see formality as the best route with the professional people they receive help from. 

Harry’s eyebrows furrow in a mixture of mild horror, eyes reflecting it. He shakes his head with obvious distaste. “ _Never_ call me Mr. Styles. Ever. I’m horrified just hearing it. Please, only ever call me Harry.”

Louis’s lips quirk, and he nods. 

“Got it.”

Harry adjusts the aviator sunglasses sitting atop his head. Louis trails alongside him silently as he leads the way towards the exit.

Harry Styles’ mansion isn’t theories of being something similar to Graceland, or Neverland; something touching holy ground, radiating sacrality. 

Harry Styles’ _castillo_ is, however, a little like finding Wonderland. 

It sits on a private property of 150 acres in southern California. The closest neighbour is fifteen miles away; he’s an avocado, tomato, peach, and strawberry farmer who Harry is quite friendly with — who, when he’s not busy and Harry’s not off on tour or occupied with things celebrities are obligated to do, stops by from time to time to give Harry a basket full of fresh, fully blossomed fruits and vegetables he grows out of nothing but kindness. His name is Charles, but Harry is given special privilege in calling him Charlie.

His home isn’t a mansion.

It is far from a stereotypical celebrity home; it’s a smaller version of a luxury cottage meant for the mountains — or, specifically, a smaller version of a rustic mountain home, surrounded by nothing but trees of all sizes and colours for miles. The woodsy trees and flower bushes do give the illusion of a mountainous background that is fitting for this home; but what’s missing is the reality of Colorado mountains and air. Parts of the exterior of this ranch and its separated garage are made mostly of stone. Other parts are made from either wood or log, but it’s hard for Louis to differentiate when it appears so minimal and thin from this angle. But there is no doubt in his mind this is a beautiful cabin. The stonework and timbre framing over the front porch gives it a rugged look that is appealing in a homely way.

In the trees surrounding the property, Louis’s eyes are most attracted to the weeping willow-like trees that beautifully blossom into varieties of shapes and heights, with white petals crowding its branches. It is clear those specifically are all of the same breed, but no two are the same, as such are snowflakes. Some grow normal, green leaves beside the petals more than others, and some not at all; some are big in width, and some have grown mostly in height and half in width, and others are equal in both.

Then there are rose bushes aligned several yards along the edge of the driveway near the mulch in front of the porch. There are dark red roses — Louis’s personal favourite — deep pink, and yellow roses he remembers are commonly referred to as Golden Celebration.

This home is surrounded by a personality of its own.

“Now, listen,” begins Louis, as they walk up the driveway together, “I know you said you’d give me a tour of your home, but I _think_ you may have made a wrong turn on the way over. I think we’ve fallen into Wonderland.”

He thought he’d get a small laugh from Harry, but he gets nothing. 

The cobblestone of the porch upon close inspection is much like the rest of everything: real; obtains a subtle mind of its own.

A porch swing to the left captures Louis’s attention. Dark brown outdoor resin wicker and a sturdy steel frame, with a green Olefin seat cushion that could comfortably sit two. Three, if one didn’t mind the cramped personal space. Its chain is chrome. It appears well-kept, and the pillow leaning against the back of the wicker is full of stripes of colours that would seem to not clash together well but happen to in their dullness.

It’s inviting and cozy.

Harry pulls a key ring crowded with multiple keys out of his back pocket, and busies himself with unlocking the door. “Thank you — I think. But I prefer to not have that terrifying Cheshire cat lurking about.”

Louis had a similar thought.

Letting the door fall open slowly, fingers adorned with rings pushing it lightly, Harry steps inside. Then he halts his movements in the foyer. The soft breeze of cool air, the aroma of living flowers, and lavender mixed with something even more lively that greets him brings a refreshing pressure to his lungs and his skin as he steps inside. 

Hardwood floor is connected to every room Louis can see from where he’s standing. Its colour is light and uplifting, matching the cream paint of the walls. The foyer is only decorated with a grey Safavieh shag area rug in front of the door. But the next room to pass through is the gathering room, and it is decorated with objects that occupy it commonly: a pure white, L-shaped settee with a pillow for each colour of the rainbow in a pastel shade neatly placed in colour coordinated order across it, a visibly fur, white throw blanket folded neatly across the back, flat screen television sat on a simple, white contemporary stand, white, high gloss Inomata Coffee Table.

Harry turns his head to look at Louis, and in return, Louis gives him a polite, quizzical look. 

“Are you allergic to any animals?” he inquires.

Louis’s eyebrows involuntarily narrow. 

“No.”

“Good.”

In this same moment, a small, tinkling bell is heard in the distance. It’s approaching quick. Louis keeps his gaze focused in the direction the sound is coming from. 

Then, in sudden sight, appears a white American Curl feline with misshapen dark grey spots all over its back, and a single massive one on the top of its head. It has a pastel yellow collar around its neck with a heart-shaped bell attached to it. It’s gazing right back at Louis with its cute, small face as it _trots_ happily towards Harry. Grinning widely, Harry gently picks the cat up into his arms, bell tinkling. It begins purring softly and lazily, rubbing her head against Harry’s chest as Harry holds her close. Louis swears he sees some kind of smile on the cat’s face. 

He honestly didn’t know cats could do that.

“Louis,” he begins, taking a few steps to bring the furry, soft-looking cat closer to him, “this is Dolly Purrton. She doesn’t bite. She loves attention.”

Tentatively, Louis lifts his hand, and he begins to pet her tail in careful strokes. It’s long, and the softest thing his fingers have touched in a long time. He starts, visibly, when she takes control and wraps her tail around Louis’s hand, then relaxes the muscles in his back when it’s clear she is merely caressing his hand with the end of her tail. He doesn’t mean to be frightened so easily by this smaller animal. But he’s _never_ been around animals much in all of his twenty-six years. Nor has he owned any. The only time he’s ever taken care of, or looked after, a pet was when he had been Kevin Hart’s assistant. His two dogs were no cats, but they were quite the loyal and friendly dogs that followed him around a lot.

“Wait,” Louis says, pausing, darting his eyes up to lock with Harry’s as it registers with him. “Dolly Purrton? As in Dolly _Parton_?”

Harry’s grin widens, trapping Louis’s attention and dividing it between his dimples and his bright gaze. He really didn’t believe Harry could smile like that. “Yeah. Charlie likes it. He’s a big Dolly Parton fan. Thought it was clever of me.” In the reflection of his eyes, there’s a look of pride. 

A light feeling breezes between the bones of Louis’s ribcage. 

“It is. I like the name,” he admits, smile small.

Dolly’s tail falls from Louis’s hand, and it lays atop Harry’s arm that supports her bottom. The grin on Harry’s face falls when Dolly becomes restless in his arms and presses her paws to his chest. She moves her head against every part she can reach. “Right,” agrees Harry, and turns his head away and to the living room. “Thank you. Now . . . onto the main room.”

The main room — also known as the gathering room, the front room — Harry shows him like Louis hadn’t been staring at it from the foyer. Hadn’t been eyeing the coziness of the settee and its throw blanket and pastel pillows. Harry gives him permission to sit on the settee when Louis asks if he may, along with the privilege of never needing to if he so desires to in the future. Louis’s bum hasn’t felt such luxurious cushioning in a while. It reminds him he has to schedule a day of settee shopping for his flat.

But his heart stutters once when he asks Harry just how big this room is. It’s 19 x 40. This massive room begins when the stairs traveling to the lower level left of the foyer line does and continues all the way to the back wall with the large, wide glass window and its two smaller glass windows beside it comfortably overlooking the back porch. 

This room could comfortably be divided into three rooms — excluding the existing foyer.

The kitchen is a soft, decor dream.

Everything except for the soft mint green colour of the tall vintage refrigerator is white. On the right side of the doorway, there is a straight line of counters against the wall until it comes to the fridge occupying the spot beside the wall. An electric cooktop lays atop the middle countertop. The white cabinets above have glass doors, and a separate, single opening with glass, with solid cabinet doors above them. On the left side, much is the same with the counters. It begins right at the edge of the doorway, and it curves into a shape of the letter L until a glass door leads to the back porch. Excluding the island feet away, there is a _lot_ of counter space to use. The white, single basin sink is in the centre of the section that curves. The backsplash for both walls is made up of white tile, and it works with the plain wreath on the wall above the sink that has a simple, light brown bow on it.

Unlike the cabinets on the right wall, there are only two identical glass door cabinets and single openings, and they are side by side the wreath. The many other cabinets and single openings are simple with small silver knobs. Underneath the cabinets near the sink, against the backsplash in order: a potted plant in a solid, white vase, a half filled knife block, two small glass jars filled with candy. A mixer matching the exact colour of the refrigerator sits on a countertop on the left side, along with an identical toaster and blender. 

The other side of the room contains the dining: long, sleek white table, two vases overflowing with daisies, tufted ivory chairs with the top of their backs curved. A gold crystal chandelier hangs above the table, extravagant, unlit, and shining. It is so elegant in a home so full of simplicities that it stands out in an oddly crucial way. Three glass windows take up the wall behind it, but not as much as the windows in the gathering room; these are average size.

Tracing his fingers along the white marble of the island’s counter, he silently admires it.

Dolly comes into his line of vision, with her head bent down and nose rubbing against the back of his hand, probably sniffing for a scent. She lifts her head to look up at him when Louis directs his attention onto her. Her round, grey eyes remind him of a calm, dreary Yorkshire afternoon — an afternoon he would spend sat on the settee, watching reruns of an old, comforting favourite show. Cautiously, he lifts this same hand, watching her watch him, and gently scratches her left ear. 

Her eyes close in pleasure. 

Louis feels a slight warmth in the centre of himself.

“I hope you like cats,” says Harry. Louis lifts his head to see him standing at the opposite end of the island. “You’re going to be taking care of her a lot. I don’t like to leave her alone too much because she tends to have separation issues. She loves being around people, and she relies on affection so much that her ability to feel isolated is far greater than an average animal’s. She becomes very withdrawn when she begins to feel that way.”

Louis’s eyebrows narrow in concern. “Any other signs?” he asks, gaze falling back on Dolly. 

“She eats very little. She self-grooms _excessively_. She’ll try many things to hold your attention, including constant mewing. The most telling sign, for me, was when I’d go away, I would come back to find my bedroom and wardrobe completely defecated. It was horrible. But I have a special prescription for her, and she has many different toys to help with her anxiety. I will show you everything after.”

Louis nods. “Okay.”

“Also,” adds Harry, “if I’m going to travel any place that will have me gone for more than a day, I take her with me. The veterinarian had told me it would be good, and would decrease Dolly’s stress.”

Louis nods again.

They move on.

Louis is shown the library next. It’s the room right of the dinette area of the kitchen. Beautiful double French doors separate both spaces. It’s a comfortable size, and the walls are painted a dark olive green, with brown rustic bookshelves pressed against two of them. They’re filled head to toe with books, and curiosity lingers in Louis, reluctant to let him go. Back of the brown leather settee faces one wall of books, while the back of a single recliner of an exact colour faces the other. An accent table of a lighter wood sits in front of both, and a rustic table lamp sits right beside the recliner. It’s turned on; it’s the only light dimly illuminating this windowless room. 

The brown door leading into the next door, Harry explains, _was_ a dining room in the original blueprints. But he’d turned it into a second bedroom, walk-in wardrobe included. The walls are lavender, and the decor is simple: flat-screen television hung on the wall above a modern white 8-drawer double dresser, a queen size bed with white silk sheets, an empty, sleek white nightstand beside it. Curtains similar in colour to the walls over two windows overlooking the front of the home.

Louis feels a shift in his emotions being in this room. The lavender brings him to such a calm, clear state of mind; he feels relaxed.

Brown double doors lead them back into the gathering room, right beside the stairs leading to a lower level. They walk straight across to an empty doorway, and Harry turns on the light to reveal a little space that connects rooms together. He points to a closed linen closet to their left, then briefly shows Louis the laundry room that was behind another door to its left.

Harry then opens a door opposite of where they are, and it reveals a small half bath. The last door — right of the open entrance — is the master bedroom. 

The size of Harry’s bedroom is arguably the first thing to notice about it. French doors and lovely attached windows that match in height and design are at the far end of the room, with white sheer curtains pulled back by thin, elegant drapery pulls. It’s another way to the back porch. A short king size platform bed lays on the ground, the back pressed against the centre of the right wall. The silk sheets and pillowcases, thin pastel violet blanket strewn across, appeal to Louis in a comforting, relaxing manner. 

Bright white walls make the room glow with the sun peeking in; paintings are spread out on every wall, and Louis spends his time looking at these first. _Springtime, 1872_ ; _On the Bank of the Seine, Bennecourt, 1868_ ; _Woman with a Parasol, facing right, 1886_. 

They are all painted by the same artist.

Who could’ve guessed Harry had such an admiration for Claude Monet?

The nightstand matches the hardwood floor. A rustic lamp and a worn, leather journal occupies space, but Louis’s attention lingers on the soft olive green alarm clock beside those two. 

“What clock is this?”

Harry walks over, presence as quiet as a feline’s. He takes the journal from where it’d been lying and wraps both hands around it in a secure grip. “1931 Big Ben,” he answers Louis’s question.

It’s a very cute clock.

“I wanted something vintage,” Harry tells him. “I change the layout of my room too often.”

Louis looks up at him. “Do you enjoy vintage things?”

Harry’s eyes flick up to meet Louis’s, head tilted down from where he’d been looking at his journal, creating a long, tense look, but he doesn’t say anything. He simply wraps his journal up in its leather strap, then proceeds to open his nightstand drawer, dropping it in there with a hard thud, and walks away. Louis looks behind himself and finds Harry pushing together unorganised, loose papers on his white writing desk. He makes his way over, eyes flitting over other various things filling spaces. At the front edge of the desk, there’s a record player that looks expensive and well-kept. Silver, with white oak. Few inches behind, a vintage, mid-century modern metal record rack sits with many vinyls filling it. 

Halting beside Harry, he asks, “Listen often?”

Harry reaches his right hand out to gently sift through records. “In my limited downtime,” he responds.

Louis’s eyes follow the movements of his fingers and the records; he has vinyls of artists from what seems like every decade of the twentieth century. These are just a small portion of vinyls clumped together on a rack, untouched and unorganised, he tells Louis. In his conscious, there were no expectations or preconceived notions concerning Harry and his home; but, perhaps, his subconscious still hadn’t been expecting such diverse music taste from the persona in the public eye.

“Dean Martin is good,” Louis comments.

“He is,” agrees Harry, then with such ease as an evening breeze, he moves around Louis. “Come. I’ll show you the bathroom.”

Not much impresses Louis, nor takes him by the throat in surprise. But he surely hadn’t expected Harry’s bathroom to be _this_ size. Harry confirms his thoughts by telling him there’s more or less a foot difference in length between his bathroom and his bedroom. Louis had already assumed in his head that his room had to be nineteen or twenty feet in length. The walk-in wardrobe at the far left end holds every pair of shoes Harry owns, Harry informs him. The shelves cover the walls from top to bottom and are neatly organised by colour. Every pair Louis’s gaze falls on appears deceptively brand new, and he notices many pairs he doesn’t think he’s seen Harry wear in public. The shower stall right of the door outside is the biggest shower he’s seen in his entire life; undoubtedly, more than three people could shower together at once in comfortable distance from one another.

Then there is the luxurious built-in bathtub. To get in there are steps matching the tile of the floor. It could, also, fit three people. 

There are multiple traditional candles spread around the marble surrounding the tub; some are far shorter than others, others are far taller, few range in between. It’s a beautiful space to soak in, set in front of windows overlooking the many trees, plants, flowers, and a vegetable garden growing healthily. 

To the right, hidden behind a door, is a toilet. 

Then there comes the second walk-in wardrobe. It’s bigger than the other one, and it holds every piece of clothing Harry owns.

“All of it’s coordinated by colour and brand,” briefly explains Harry when Louis takes a peek inside.

Harry leads him out to his room and to the French doors, opening both to let the fresh summer air in, rays of the sun trailing along in after it. There is not much happening on the porch besides more potted plants and flowers spread all over. Passing the windows of the front room, then the door to enter through to the kitchen, an end comes; but there’s a more narrow path that continues around the side.

Harry turns his head to the left to look at Louis beside him. “This is the open deck.”

The deck is a long path, with no short, black gates separating it from the outside like those gates have for the porch. Louis glances through the windows of the dinette, then glances up in a brief second — but, in as quick movements, he tilts his head back, taking notice of the fairy lights strewn across the entire deck roof. An outdoor wicker loveseat — that appears to act as a storage underneath the cream cushions sat atop — resides in between the second and third quarter of the deck. A table, legs extremely thin and tall, surface round, flat, and dark, has three traditional candles varying in size occupying some space and miniature potted red roses.

This is surely a sight when lit during the night.

“Very lovely, this,” Louis comments, softly.

“It’s winsome at the moment,” confesses Harry, “but when night falls, it is absolutely enchanting.”

Louis can only imagine. 

With a brief glance at Harry, Louis replies, “I’m sure it is.”

Enveloping in silence, there’s a woodsy, magically vanilla and fruity scent that captures Louis’s attention, and his gaze locks in on the sincere image right in front of him. The gentle wind caresses strands of Harry’s blond curls, and he does nothing to fix them, keeping his hands clasped together behind his back. To tell you the honest truth, Louis doesn’t have a fully developed opinion on anything; there’s a cold distance about Harry, but that could be an effect caused by anything — by the limelight, by his own personality — and Louis’s job isn’t to judge: it’s to work. He’s not going to ask Harry to explain himself, to change himself, to quite honestly do anything. He’s been rather simpatico today, on the lowest level, and Louis has no choice but to be okay with that.

It wasn’t Louis who reached out to work with Harry; it was Harry’s team who contacted him, and that’s the way Louis will keep it.

“Do you want to see Dolly’s things, now?” Harry asks him.

Louis nods, and follows him back inside.

Dolly Purrton is gazing unblinkingly at Louis from the opposite end of the settee, curled into a ball against the cushions. 

Louis stares back.

In the past week and a half, Harry has been so busy preparing for this night. At last year’s Video Music Awards, MTV had premiered the music video for the final single Harry had released off of his previous album. It had been a highly anticipated event. This year, he will be performing his first single from the record he’s scheduled to release in October. In Harry’s words, it’s a spontaneous work of art. Half of the purpose is to take these people’s hearts in a metaphorical iron fist and give the unexpected; the other half of the purpose Harry explained in fewer words: it has been proven multiple times that sales skyrocket in response to such actions, and it works effectively in increasing conversation centring Harry in the media. The music video becoming available on YouTube as soon as his performance is finished, it will garner far more views faster than an average announcement and release.

This was all coming from a business point of view, of course.

Dolly leisurely gets up, and she uses time sweetly in making her way over to Louis. Pausing her steps on the cushion next to Louis, she’s now mere inches from him. She doesn’t stop staring at him, and Louis’s not sure what she’s doing, or if _he_ should do something. He’s worried about scaring her off if he reaches his hand out to touch her tail or scratch behind her ear.

Dolly lowers her bum and sits in the spot she stands in.

Louis’s gaze immediately averts to the television when the commercials end and Harry’s performance is announced.

The entire stage is dark and becomes covered in smoke. 

Multiple dancers are in a line across the stage, still as stone and shirtless amidst the heavy smoke, wearing demonic, life-like clown masks. These are no ordinary clown masks one could easily buy at a Halloween store, these were painted in such a manner so realistic and naked in cruel nature that is unlike anything Louis’s ever seen. The silence and the haunting instrumental rock music makes it far more sinister. The spotlight above the heavy fog flickers on several times before staying, and it reveals a sickly Harry trapped in a cage swaying unsteadily twenty feet in the air. He’s slumped against the bars, bum on the floor of the cage, clothes ripped and stained with blood, with ill-looking pale skin, bags and purple bruising under his eyes; there are deep, dark bruises along his jaw and cheek, and a bloody gash on his bottom lip.

This is what Louis did not see in the one rehearsal he’d been to.

Staring into nothing with glossy, spacey eyes, warbling words come from Harry’s mouth. He sings his first verse into the mic that’s been planted inside his ear before conjuring the strength to move, then falls forward and gets onto all fours, dragging his knees and hands to reach the other side and weakly push the bars keeping him caged in his small prison until his strength builds into something solid and in his last, forceful shove, few of the bars give way and they fall to the ground with a _harsh_ echo. When they roll out of sight, Harry turns around during a tense build up in the song, his back now facing the audience as he belts a raspy note — _he’s not going to do it_ , Louis’s thinking as he watches Harry, but it’s the instant panic constricting his chest the moment Harry abruptly ends the note and lets himself fall — fall 20 fucking feet, arms outstretched, into the hands of his dancers.

Commotion has long since erupted in the audience, and it only further escalates as they gently and hurriedly set Harry on his feet.

Dolly jumped off the settee the second Harry let himself fall. But she’s still trying to paw at the screen, standing on her hind legs with her front ones clinging to the surface of the television stand. Louis knows she must be confused and concerned for her owner. 

He forgot to put _fucking crazy_ under the list of things Harry Styles could be.

Harry stands with a face so perfectly composed and limbs that do not quiver during a dramatic pause, letting the screams and applause and heightened noise overtake the stage silence. Then smoke slowly clears, and stage lights turn on, revealing what had been behind it. The set up represents a royal medieval court: the King’s and Queen’s red thrones are set in centre stage; red velvet carpet is laid out all around the stage: one leading up to each throne and one horizontal to the royal seating. More dancers are uncovered — men and women alike — to play characters of commoners dressed in the medieval period’s fashion. Louis doesn’t tear his eyes away when Harry is hounded by the menacing dancers, cornered by them — when the smoke comes up and swallows whatever is in its path and he’s dragged off into the fog by them, then is harshly pushed back into the spotlight moments later, fallen right onto his knees, in his red and gold jester costume — when he tears the jester cards placed all around, and he throws his aflame mock scepter at pinned pictures of himself with perfected ease and lights roses on fire.

The dancers attack Harry sometime into his performance. He’s belting long, raspy notes in a raw voice for the chorus when they tie him up and draw a massive, vicious, red _L_ on his forehead. They pick Harry up, drop him onto the rolled out velvet carpet in front of the King and Queen resting in their thrones, of whom were looking bored, but now appearing cold, indifferent, and heartless. The Queen stands slowly from her throne, her steps measured and carefully paced. Harry, on his knees, turns to his right to face the Queen with glistening, hollow eyes. She reaches her arm out behind herself and commands with her fingers for one of the clowns to come forth. One obeys, and presents a dagger on a royal pillow with tassels.

She takes the dagger from the pillow, and as Harry croons the last words in his performance, head bowed with emotion and back hunched with it, the last elegiac sounds fill the room, she shoves the dagger right into Harry’s chest. Harry’s features twist into genuine pain and horror, heartache reflecting in his teary eyes, as fake blood begins to seep into his costume and his voice cuts off. Every wicked dancer wears sickening, chilling smiles at his misery; the King and Queen look upon him with such cold, indifferent expressions; the commoners look on in contempt.

The lights shut off.

The applause that erupts would be ear-piercing if he were physically there. But it is still loud through the television, goosebumps littering his arms. Dolly is sat back on her bum, tail curved into a resemblance of a question mark. 

He thinks he understands.


End file.
